


To Serve

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Underage Sex, Power Imbalance, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-25 08:35:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17721800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: It did not seem right to sit here and sip wine with Chabouillet, as if he were his equal rather than a young guard he had opted to take away with him to Paris.





	To Serve

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iberiandoctor (jehane)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehane/gifts).



Chabouillet’s room at the inn was nicer than anything Javert had ever seen. There were colorful curtains in front of the windows, the bed was large enough for four people, a bottle of wine had awaited them, and comfortable armchairs stood in front of a fire that had already been lit for their return.

“Are you certain you wouldn’t like a room of your own?” Chabouillet leaned forward to pour the wine.

Javert was horribly aware of his mud-stained boots and mended trousers. “You have already done so much for me, sir,” he said awkwardly. “The stable would do well enough, or a straw mattress—”

“Nonsense. There’s enough space here. No need to sleep on the floor.”

Javert swallowed and acknowledged his new patron’s generosity by bowing his head. “Thank you, sir. I promise I’ll prove myself worthy of your kindness.”

“I’m certain you will,” Chabouillet said amiably, taking hold of his glass. “Come, join me. Sit down.”

Javert stared at the glass of wine, then at the chair opposite Chabouillet’s. He had never seen a room so luxurious—Chabouillet had, of course, chosen to stay in the finest inn of Toulon. No one Javert knew had ever set foot in it before, except perhaps for the commissaire of the bagne himself.

It did not seem right to sit here and sip wine with Chabouillet, as if he were his equal rather than a young guard the secretary had opted to take away with him to Paris.

Paris, and then—the police. A big step for a mere bagne guard, whose own father had rotted in those chains.

It was an opportunity Javert could not have let pass by. Moreover, he had not wanted to. Something had drawn him to Chabouillet right from the start. Chabouillet—with his silver hair arranged in fashionable curls, his waistcoat of cream-colored, embroidered silk, his elegantly knotted cravat, his silver-topped cane—had drawn his attention even among the rich travelers that visited the bagne.

Javert was used to them. They might throw a guard a silver coin if one knew what tales to tell about the convicts chained in the heat; they might gasp in shock, or laugh at what they heard, and then they would leave again without ever sparing a glance at the guard who had led them around.

Not so Chabouillet. Chabouillet had hardly spared a glance for the convicts, even though on his way to the commissaire’s office, Javert had dutifully pointed out that they were just walking past the famous forger Avril.

Instead Chabouillet had asked him for his name, and then for his story. And then...

Even now Javert felt heat rush to his cheeks when he remembered Chabouillet convincing him to take him on a detour along the water, where one might breathe fresh air, although the commissaire’s secretary was waiting for him. They had stood there by the water for at least twenty minutes, and Chabouillet’s hand had come to linger on his shoulder as he gestured with his cane, painting pictures of Paris.

By the time Javert at last led him up the stairs to the secretary’s office, he had felt nearly drunk on the older man’s attention, who had had kind words for him even there, in front of the secretary, before Javert was forced to return to his duties.

And now, a mere two days later, here Javert was, having quitted the guards of the bagne and accepted Chabouillet’s offer to travel with him to Paris and enter the service of the police there.

Javert’s glance fell on the offered glass of wine again. Then, instead, he looked at Chabouillet, who was watching him calmly.

Javert fell to his knees and hesitantly dared to rest a hand on Chabouillet’s knee. Even the wool of his trousers felt as soft as nothing Javert had ever touched before.

“Have you done this before, my boy?” Chabouillet asked softly.

Javert nodded. “When I first became a guard... Henri taught me how. And then later, adjutant-guard Mathieu would call me into his office sometimes.”

“Did you want to do it?”

Javert swallowed. What could one say to such a thing? “Henri said that was how it was done. And I wanted—this was the only place I had. He made me practice on a prisoner until I knew how. I didn’t... I didn’t like that.”

Even now shame made his stomach churn, the terror he had never quite forgotten in all those years that all the convicts knew.

Chabouillet set down his wine. “That wasn’t kindly done. It’s not your fault, of course. He should have known better.”

Javert lowered his head, exhaling in relief. He still felt slightly sick, just thinking of the eyes of the convict on him, the sounds the man had made. He still remembered the terror of having to swallow around the large prick in his mouth, the overpowering scent of the man’s sweat, the come that had filled his mouth again and again until Henri was certain that he could do it without using his teeth.

He still saw that prisoner every now and then. He’d never be able to forget him.

Perhaps that was one of the reasons why he had been so eager to accept Chabouillet’s offer. He’d finally be able to leave those eyes behind, those insolent, mocking convict’s eyes that had seen adjutant-guard Javert on his knees when he’d been but a boy, desperately sucking on that hard, large convict cock.

“It doesn’t matter now,” he made himself say. “It was a long time ago.”

Chabouillet reached out to gently touch his hair. “And where you’re going, you’ll never see any of them again,” he promised. “Although the position I can get you is not without danger either—but someone like you can do well. You’re wasted on the bagne.”

“I will, sir.” Javert nuzzled eagerly into Chabouillet’s touch. He did not flinch away even when Chabouillet’s hands released him and went to the fastenings of his trousers instead.

The prick Chabouillet drew out was flushed with blood, not as large as the convict’s had been, but of a good size. Chabouillet stroked himself slowly.

“You don’t have to.” Despite his obvious arousal, his voice was gentle even now. “I’ll send for one of the women downstairs. A girl your age. We can share her. Have you had a woman before? I’ll teach you how—”

Something inside Javert twisted with a sudden, powerful heat as he saw himself on Chabouillet’s large bed, imagined the strawberry-blond locks of a girl they had passed spread out on the sheets, imagined Chabouillet’s low laughter—

“You don’t have to, sir,” he said and leaned forward, his face flushed with embarrassment. To serve a man like Chabouillet was one thing; to imagine himself like that, in his bed, as though they were equals...

Chabouillet made a soft sound of amusement. “Have it your way then,” he murmured. “Dear boy...”

Javert could feel Chabouillet’s fingers against his cheek as he parted his lips around Chabouillet’s prick. Now, for the first time, he was glad for the humiliating lessons Henri had taught; Chabouillet’s prick, despite its size, easily fit his mouth, and he swallowed it with eager determination.

Chabouillet tasted warm and clean. There was none of the sour, masculine sweat of the convict to him.

One of Chabouillet’s hands came to rest on his head, but it did not pull him forward until he choked. Instead, it remained, as light as a caress, allowing Javert to go at his own pace.

Javert swallowed around Chabouillet, again and again, allowing him the use of his throat as well as that of his mouth. That, too, he had learned on the massive, red prick of the convict. Even though his eyes burned, he was able to take Chabouillet right down to his root, until his nose was buried in the greying curls surrounding the base of his shaft.

At that, Chabouillet made a sound of pleasure. The hand in Javert’s hair tightened at last. Javert gladly allowed himself to be held in place as Chabouillet’s hips came forward several times, the man’s cock deep in his throat when he heard him groan and felt him spill himself, wet and hot.

Chabouillet’s hand kept him in place until even the last pulse of his seed had been emptied down his throat. Then he pulled back. Javert’s chest was tight with need for air, but even so, he made certain to lap up whatever traces of the man’s release remained before he finally sat back.

Chabouillet had leaned back in his chair, the glass of wine in his hand once more. He studied Javert with a pleased, thoughtful look.

“Well then,” he murmured. “Perhaps I cannot blame your Henri at all. He did teach you well. And that convict… Is he still there?”

Javert swallowed painfully, then licked his lips.

“He is, monsieur,” he said softly. He thought of the man’s hate-filled eyes, even as the chain-bound body, muscles bulging, had begun to tremble uncontrollably, powerful hips coming forward again and again to fill his mouth. “24601. That was his number. Two escape attempts so far. He’ll never make it out. Not until he’s dead.”

“Good,” Chabouillet said with a slow smile. Then he leaned forward to take hold of the second glass of wine. “That means you can forget about him. You’ll never see him again. Now sit down. We’ve got a long day of travel ahead of us tomorrow.”

It still felt wrong to take the chair by Chabouillet’s side. Still, as he took a first, hesitant sip of his wine, his throat still faintly aching and his jaw sore, his eyes came to rest on Chabouillet again, who was watching him with what he hoped was fondness. Javert, for his own part, felt nothing but warmth as he watched Chabouillet raise his glass.

“To a bright future,” Chabouillet said, the fire making the wine sparkle like rubies. “And friendship.”

“Friendship,” Javert repeated, barely able to believe that a man like Chabouillet would speak such words to him.

The wine, when he tasted it at last, was warm and smooth on his tongue, unlike the thin vinegar of the wine the guards would share. He could taste in it the sun and the soil of far-off places, taste the solemnity of the Prefecture’s offices. It soothed the soreness of his throat. He took another sip, and another, until even the sweat of the convict’s filthy body was burned from his tongue at last.


End file.
